How Lucky We Are
by RobinRocks
Summary: ...To be alive right now. [UKUS, Revolutionary War] Their meetings are arranged in letters, alluded to in vague detail for fear of interception, and he is always worried that it won't be England awaiting him behind that door.
1. I

So I finally rock up a _week_ late with this, haha. This was due partly to having internet problems and also to being crushed to death by my back-burner of unfinished fics. Somebody please send help. T.T

So this is my annual horrible 4th July fic, which will be in two parts (ahahahahaha... _ha_ ). The title is one of the many repeated lines/themes from the incredible musical _Hamilton_. I am not late to _Hamilton_ itself but I am surprisingly late to the _APH-Hamilton_ mash-up scene (although UKUS parodies of 'You'll Be Back' write themselves). The title seems fitting given that: a.) this is a 4th July fic (or that was the intention); and b.) this story includes not only George Washington but also the $10 Founding Father himself. They are meant to be their historical selves, powdered wigs and all, but please feel free to imagine them as Lin-Manuel Miranda and Christopher Jackson if you wish. :3

...If you can stand to see America being so goddamn rude to them.

How Lucky We Are

[I]

Red makes him invisible.

He pushes through the doors of the inn and plunges into the crowd, breathless from the bitter wind beyond. The place is heaving, a favourite haunt of the Redcoats since the British took the town. England should know better than to lure him here.

Nobody pays him any heed as he passes by the bar. The dead man's coat, a little big in the shoulders, is a second skin, a reversible loyalty. England is the one who gave it to him, suggesting he use it for precisely this purpose. George Washington has no idea he has it.

He slips around the side of the bar and through the door, coming to the back stairway, poorly-lit with slanted beams. Another soldier is out here, his rifle propped against the wall, his attention decidedly elsewhere; America having to step quite delicately over the prostitute's skirts as he clambers up the staircase. His boots, thick with frozen mud, are heavy on the crooked wood. England will hear him coming a mile away. The landing is lit by a single blown-glass lantern, hanging by its leather sling from a hook in the ceiling. It flickers overhead like a dying sun, stretching out his shadow, his head halfway up the door at the far end. Here is his prize – and yet, as ever, he hesitates, hangs back, suddenly too afraid. Their meetings are arranged in letters, alluded to in vague detail for fear of interception, and he is always worried that it won't be England awaiting him.

He steels himself, stifling a breath behind his teeth, and strides towards the door. They'll know he was here, if it comes to it, he's left a trail of Boston-bred blood in his bootprints – they can follow them to the foot of the bed, traitor that he is. He's ready for a bayonet or a gun barrel. He doesn't even bleed.

His fingers barely brush the wood before the door creaks open. He sees the glint of green beyond, smells the bitter kick of European-branded tobacco. Must be something about all that going back and forth across the Atlantic.

"It's me," he breathes. "Just me."

"You are later than expected." England opens the door a little wider, just enough for America to slither through. "I was growing worried."

"My apologies. I came the long way around." America points to his boots as England shuts the door and locks it. "I could not risk being followed."

England nods, turning to him. "We are safe now." He draws him close, wrapping his arms about him. "Behind closed doors, where no prying eyes may judge."

America nods, cuddling close into his embrace. He misses this more than anything – the feel of his arms around him, the sound of his heart, the way he rubs at his hair. If he closes his eyes, he can forget about the war. It can be 1770 again, when everything was but a distant rumble and he was not a cause.

"You're trembling," England says close to his ear. "Cold?"

"A little bit." Truthfully, his fingers and toes are still numb from the walk. These wretched coats, red or blue, are sweltering in the summer and not nearly warm enough in the winter.

"Come here." England pulls away, leads him towards the fire. "Warm yourself."

America gratefully sinks to the floorboards before the flames, kicking off his boots to ease his frozen toes. England settles next to him.

"You have grown again," he says, observing America's long gangling legs in their muddied breeches. "Honestly, boy, you're akin to a weed."

"It must be all the fighting," America replies. "Perhaps it means that you are going to lose the war, England."

"Oh, don't talk such rot. Your lot haven't a hope between them."

America exhales, putting his head on England's shoulder. "I do hope not. What a mess."

"Fret not, poppet. You know how savage I can be."

"Do France and Prussia know?"

"Rather too well, I assure you. They are simply being opportunists about all this."

"I do fear that they suspect, you know," America says. "...You and I, I mean."

"Even if they do, it is not in their power to do much about it. It is almost impossible for one nation to harm another, at least with permanent consequences."

"And what about Washington? I think he might know, too."

"Well, it is even more difficult for a human. The best they can do is threaten, in my experience."

"In your experience? Who in their right mind would ever threaten you?"

"Oliver Cromwell. He told me he would have me beheaded alongside the king."

"He would not have dared. Surely he hadn't the authority."

"I did not care to find out, all the same. Humans are afraid of us, when it comes to it, and they will often resort to foolish measures to conquer what they fear."

"...Perhaps we are the ones being foolish." America watches the fire spit and curl. "There is no doubt... that this is treachery."

"That is what the humans would call it, yes."

"Well, we speak their languages, do we not?" America turns his head to look at him.

"Indeed." England takes his chin, tilts it up, kisses him. America leans in, aching for him, breathless for more when they part. "...In too many ways, one might argue." England rubs at his cheek with his thumb, affectionate, but America can feel the grit of dried mud beneath his touch.

"You really are lovely, you know," England goes on quietly. "It is no wonder that they are all so ready to die for you."

"I don't care." He's seen too many of them do it, perhaps. It no longer matters. He sheds his scarlet skin at last, tossing it aside. "Yours is the only devotion I want. Their petty grievances over tea, over taxes..." He takes England's hand, forcibly, no is not an answer, pulling him towards the bed. "What care I for that?"

"These are the petty grievances that make up this world, I'm afraid," England says. His coat is already discarded, sagging like a bloodied cloth on the back of the door. Sometimes it's hard to know what side he's on, either.

America wraps his arms about his neck, sinking backwards to the mattress, pulling him with him.

"Then shall we forget it all," he says savagely, "and go back to being earth and mud–"

"Oh, I think you're quite muddy enough as it is," England laughs, kissing his dirty cheek. "Enough of talk like that." Now a kiss on the mouth, lingering and gritty, America hanging around his neck. "Hush."

"I haven't got long to spare," America whispers against his mouth. "They will wonder where I am."

"I know." England unknots his cravat, undoes a few buttons, his mouth peeling over chilled bone. America turns his head aside to allow him the arch of his neck, sighing against his mouth. He can sense the heat of him already.

"France and Prussia fuck," he says, feeling him move down his body. "I can hear them at night."

"That is old news to me," England says. He begins to undo America's breeches, stiff with dried-in filth. "Did you fall on your arse?"

"Right in the mud, yes." America squirms, lifting his hips for England to pull them down. "I know you know. I was just saying."

England kisses the inside of his thigh, watching him tremble. "Why?"

A beat. "I-I envy them."

"Hm." Now a smile, locked in the heat between his legs. "They're not happy either, you know."

America looks up at the ceiling. "But what is it like," he wonders, "to not even care...?"

England takes him in, his arms wrapped about his thighs to anchor him so that he can't thrash. This all by the book – this is how he remembers it. He arches his back, pushing as far as he can into that wonderful wet warmth, that mouth he knows – that knows him, knows what he wants. This is something to hang on to for all he's worth. It almost makes him forget the hardness of the bed, the creak of the sagging wood, the scratch of caked mud pushed to his knees. If only he could. If only it was over – or never begun. If only they were home.

England lifts his head. "You're crying," he whispers. He pulls away, moves up, his eyes clouded with concern. "You are in pain? Injured?"

"N-no." America wipes fiercely at his face. "I-I am perfectly well, please... please don't–"

"Sshh." England gently kisses his forehead. "It's alright, it's..."

America begins to cry. "I don't want this," he sobs. "I don't want anything to do with it. I don't want to fight you, England." He clings and England gathers him up, holding him tight, aroused, half-naked, stinking of mud and dead men.

"I know you're afraid," England whispers in his ear. "Of course you are. You're so young and these men parade you like a flag for their own gain."

America clings to him, his face buried against his shoulder. "Please," he begs, "let us just run away – we can go to London, no-one need ever know– "

"We cannot run from this," England says. "Neither of us can."

"But I did not ask for this!"

"I know. That is the burden of what we are." England pulls back, holding him at arm's length, studying his blotchy face. "Listen – you may cry before me but you must never allow the humans to see you do it. Do you understand? They cannot be permitted to see how weak we truly are. They think us born of war, gluttons for it. Perhaps they think they're showing us a kindness."

"Th-then... is that all we are for? To stand in mud up to our knees and watch it happen–"

"You said that you did not care."

"I don't want to," America says, clenching his fists in England's shirt. " _I don't want to_."

"Then think not on it." England pushes him back against the bed – the mattress is hard as a board and there's a bit of a thud. "Remember what you came out here for."

They kiss; and America exhales and lets go, his fingers trembling, England moving down his body once more. He turns his head on the sour pillow and looks at the fire.

"I want to go home, England," he says.

England kisses his knee. "We will, America, I promise."

They both know, of course, that the house was burned to the ground in 1776.

* * *

He goes back the long way, too, crunching alone between the tall naked trees, the red coat bundled in his arms. There isn't much of a moon and there is no sound but for the crackle of his boots on the frigid ground. He isn't afraid – for what has he to fear from the land they would have him inherit? Bears, wolves, men in red coats... They wouldn't stand a chance.

The remains of their house is little more than a black skeleton of bricks and archways. He stands before it, his breath clouding in front of his face, watching. He cannot even begin to describe how much it hurts to look at it. For him, this was the beginning: not the massacre, not the tea party, not the declaration but this, the night he was dragged forcibly from his childhood home and made to watch as it went up in flames. England had been away fighting in North Carolina, oblivious, returning a month later to find America gone and the house destroyed. Cruelty for cruelty's sake.

He hides the red coat beneath the once-splendid doorway, now burned away to matchsticks, and takes out the blue one from its place instead. This is the best hideaway for the coat, really. Nobody ever comes here, not anymore. Sometimes at night he dreams that the war is over and he and England are rebuilding it, side-by-side in the sun. They are just as dirty as they are now, thick with mud and dust, but it's the good kind, the sort that doesn't come from destruction.

He gets back to the camp late. Most of the men are in their tents already, makeshift canvas things that don't keep out the rain. He doesn't have one to himself – he shares with Prussia and France, who screw loudly and obscenely barely three feet from him when they think he's asleep. He hopes that's what they're doing now so he can get in and undressed without them paying him much heed.

He doesn't get as far as the tent, however. A young soldier stops him with his rifle barely ten steps inside the camp.

"General Washington wishes to see you," he informs him.

Annoyed, America steps past the weapon. "It is late. I will go to him in the morning–"

"No, he insisted that it is quite urgent." Now the flash of a bayonet in his face. "He will not wait."

America scowls. "So be it." He stalks away towards Washington's tent, right at the back of the camp. This will not be good. He'll want to know where he's been, what he's been doing–

 _Who_ he's been doing, perhaps, which won't go down well at all.

The tent is still lit. Washington is waiting for him, even at this time of night. America clenches his fists and braces himself, stepping within. He finds the general with his back to him, poring over a map spread out on the desk. He isn't alone: Alexander Hamilton is at his own desk in the corner, writing. They both look up at his entrance.

"America," Washington says crisply, politely. "How kind of you to come."

"I was informed that it was a matter most urgent," America replies. He stops himself from bowing. It wouldn't do to be too sarcastic already.

Washington smiles coldly at him. He's had more than enough of him at this point, it is obvious. He idly runs his fingers over the trigger of his pistol, discarded on the desk. America rolls his eyes. Washington doesn't catch it but Hamilton does, watching him like a hawk. America doesn't like him much – he's too keen, too observant. He notices things. He's aware that America could kill him.

"I suppose I wouldn't call it urgent, as such," Washington says, arresting America's attention once more.

"Then you wish to know where I was."

Oh, _wouldn't_ he like to know: being fondled, fingered, fucked by the enemy, lord, it'd make his powdered wig curl–

"I was not aware that you had even left the camp."

America says nothing. His eyes dart towards Hamilton again, daring, desperate, but the man looks down at his work. Aren't these the men so ready to die for him...?

"I was out scouting for Redcoats," he says flatly.

"There are men assigned to that duty."

"Yes," America agrees, "but I cannot be killed. There is no point in wasting good soldiers."

Washington nods. "That may be," he replies, "but I have need of you elsewhere. Your exceptional skills ought not to be wasted on keeping look-out." He beckons America to the map, pointing out a spot along the river. "I would like you to go on ahead to join Colonel Prescott's forces here. They have lost a lot of men already."

America exhales, giving a terse nod. He knows exactly why Washington is sending him away from Boston.

"When?" he asks sullenly.

"Tomorrow morning."

"You said it was not urgent."

"Well, I am not worried about you dying on the way there." Washington nods towards his aide. "Hamilton will be accompanying you."

 _To ensure that you don't run away._

America smiles coolly between them. "Well, it will be a change of pace. I look forward to it."

Washington seems guarded. Clearly he expected him to fuss and fight, wail that he wouldn't go. He has done it before but it doesn't bear much fruit in the end. He is smarter about it now. Besides, Hamilton will be easy to get away from (one way or another).

"Will that be all, general?" he asks politely.

"For now, yes. I will see you off myself on the morn." Washington's shrewd eyes narrow. "Oh, and... do make sure you are wearing the correct uniform. It would not do at all to have you in the wrong colour." A pause. "What a waste if you were to be shot."

Hamilton looks startled, looking to the general. "Sir–"

"If you mean to threaten me," America interrupts, "then you had better make good on it because you will not find me forgiving when all this is over."

"Threaten you?" Washington stays Hamilton with his hand, turning fully to America once more. "I think you are mistaken in your understanding. It is you who threatens _us_." He glances at Hamilton, straining out of his seat. "Alexander, I am sending you out into the wilderness with this creature. Perhaps I am sending you to your death."

Hamilton frowns. "Sir, with all due respect–"

"You think us monsters," America says savagely. He can feel the tears beginning to prick at his eyes and wipes fiercely at them. He must not let these men see. "You think us undeserving of the things you take for granted–"

"Perhaps so," Washington agrees coldly. "And you have yet to convince me otherwise." He turns away. "Goodnight."

America stands there for a moment, unable to speak, to move. He doesn't know what to do, watching Washington's back. He sees Hamilton get up at last. He doesn't know what he's going to do – come to him, comfort him, sidestep him completely, congratulate Washington on sentiment well-expressed, it's how they all feel, he'll never be one of them, he's better off on his back in England's bed after all–

He dashes out of the tent and sprints across the camp, running blindly to put as much distance between himself and Washington as possible. If Hamilton follows then he soon outruns him, darting between tents and trees until at last, breathless, he comes to his own quarters. It's already lit from within and he can smell wine and burnt meat. He pauses, panting, calming himself down, wiping at his face. He realises belatedly how wild his hair is. He forgot to comb it before leaving England – or, to be more precise, usually England does it for him. They are becoming sloppy, careless, complacent.

France and Prussia are entangled under twisted sheets in the same cot, almost asleep. Now he can smell the sex as well, stronger than the smoke. He scrunches his nose in disgust as France stirs and lifts his head from Prussia's pale shoulder.

"You have come crawling back at long last, I see," he drawls. "It is about time."

"I was with General Washington, if you must know," America snaps. He pulls off his coat and begins to undress. He aches in every way possible and can't wait to crawl into bed.

"All this time?" France smiles lazily at him. "You little liar."

"I hardly think it's any of your concern."

"I know where you were, Amérique. I am not an idiot." A pause, watching America take off his filthy shirt. "...How is dear Angleterre? I do hope he was not too miserable to, ah, attend to you–"

"Well, it is quite alright for you to make such comments!" America snaps, throwing his shirt at him. It lands on his head, covering him like a shroud. "Steuben personally sent Prussia here to help with the training of our troops and all _you_ can think of doing is... is...!"

"Is _what_?" France pulls the shirt off, dangling it by one finger. "Precious boy – you can risk your life sneaking away to England for it but you cannot even bring yourself to utter the word. Those with Puritan hearts are always the worst." He smirks. "How delightful you must be beneath him. ...Of course, I need not go to him for details. I stress again that you are welcome in our bed at any time."

America recoils in revulsion. "I would never–"

"What the _fuck_ is going on?" Prussia growls, at last raising himself, still half-asleep. He is unbelievably pale in the flickering light, a void in the dirty blankets. He is one of the borderline ones – he _looks_ like he isn't human. "I am trying to _sleep_."

"Amérique has come back," France says. He kisses Prussia's shoulder, using teeth. "We all know where he has been."

Prussia snorts, putting his hand to France's matted hair, scrunching his white hand through it. There is genuine affection between them, plain to see. It's surprising, unsettling. They are both such opportunists, it doesn't seem right that they know how to love. They feel just as alien to him as Washington.

"You have a nerve to show me such disrespect," Prussia says, his scarlet eyes narrowing at America. "I came here to help you win this war. What secrets does he pry out of you when he's got your legs open? What plans, what positions–"

"We do not talk about the fighting," America says fiercely. "I go to him to forget all this wretchedness. We had a _life_ here before all this."

"I had a life here, too," France says. "With Canada – before Angleterre took him from me. Perhaps you will recall that when we see Canada on the battlefield in red."

"That is not _my_ fault!"

"Indeed." France tosses his shirt back at him. It drops in a bundle at his feet. "You stink of him."

"Unsurprising." Prussia sinks again and France goes with him. "Get into bed, you little slut."

America feels his face flush. "That is rich coming from you. Where is Spain tonight?"

"You misunderstand me," Prussia growls. "You think I mean promiscuity. Your problem is quite the opposite. You keep going back to England even though you really should know better by now." He buries his face against France's chest. "You are too stupid to be helped."

America looks at the back of his head for a moment – at his strange silvery hair matted with sweat and mud – and then his eyes drift upwards to meet those of France, who is unmoved.

"I thought you were kinder than this," America says, a little bit desperate. He sees how gently he holds Prussia – who doesn't need such tenderness.

"There is no point in being kind to you now, Amérique. You are more than glutted on it already. Now war does not come naturally to you." France shakes his head. "Such damage Angleterre has done to you, and with you so young... Perhaps this was his intention all along. That is why you go limping back to him again and again–"

"I _love_ him." Defiant.

"Nations do not love." Dismissive.

"Well," America says hotly, "I am not a nation. I am a colony – _his_ colony – and no piece of paper can transmute me from one to the other!"

"But a victory can," France says, settling again. He closes his eyes. "I think you are difficult just for the sake of it. You have learnt that from Angleterre, at least. ...Still, you should pay Washington greater heed."

America clenches his fists, feeling the grit of mud against his palms. "I will _die_ before I will kneel to Washington."

"Oui," France sighs against Prussia's hair. "Perhaps you will."


	2. II

Guess what. I'm a liar. I said two parts. It will be three. (Nobody is surprised.)

I have been awol for a while, it's true (this was a 4th July fic – it is now September). Much of this is due to an extensive trip with my long-time partner-in-crime Narroch, where we spent time both here in the UK and then in the US. This is a relevant detail because while we were in Narroch's home country, we went to Washington DC, where we hung plaintively around the railings separating us from the statue of Alexander Hamilton in front of the Treasury. This was due to roadworks in front of the building, meaning that access to the statue was blocked off and we couldn't get close enough to hang off his feet like the massive weebs that we are.

Lin-Manuel Miranda, you have much to answer for.

How Lucky We Are

II

The battle is over but the field does not fall silent, drenched with the debris of the dead. Dying men cannot keep quiet, writhing in their gravesoil, buried alive in mud. The snow has melted beneath cannons and horses and boots. Red, blue – it's hard to know what colour they started out in.

As for America, he's never been so filthy in all his short life. He's lost his rifle somewhere in the quagmire, the mud sucking it out of his grip when he went down face-first. A British cavalryman shot him in the side of the skull, leaving him for dead – to bleed out, to drown, to have someone else finish him off – but he awoke some time later with no bullet hole and no gun. This is the third battle in a fortnight where he hasn't killed a single human. Perhaps it is his fault they didn't win this. What's left of the American forces is making a hasty retreat, salvaging all they can, leaving those that can't be helped behind. America sits with his chin on his knees, letting them pass him, watching the bloom of red flooding the battlefield as the British move forward. They, too, have lost a lot of men – and the Union Flag they carry is torn and dirty, limp in the frigid air. England is not among them. America knows this – knows he's still in Boston – but he always looks, always watches, just to make sure.

(Sometimes he sees Canada and their eyes meet and then dart away. How he envies him, clothed in crimson.)

Alexander Hamilton stops before him, his boots caked, his coat torn, his hair matted. He looks like he barely got out of there alive.

"We are retreating," he says. He sounds weary, impatient. "You have to get up."

"Did we lose?" America asks dully. "Again?"

"We are at a tactical disadvantage on this terrain."

"But they keep pushing us back – won't we always be at a tactical disadvantage?" America sighs. "Look at all these dead men – and for what?"

"Such is the price of our freedom," Hamilton says tightly. "Equally we cannot turn back now or they will have died for nothing."

"Yes," America mutters. He buries his face in his knees. "Instead they have died for me."

"Given how little you have put into the independence effort thus far, I think you give yourself too much credit."

"My apologies, Alexander," America says, muffled against dirty buff. "I know you are not doing this for me. You are an opportunist. You are here for yourself."

"And you are absent for the same reason," Hamilton snaps. "The will of the colonies cannot be subdued by the tantrum of a child. We will not stop for the king, we will not stop for England and we will not stop for you."

"Yes, I quite see that." America glances up at him again. "I see that you answer only to George Washington."

"I have the utmost respect for the general. He will see to it that this war is won and that we get our freedom. He is the one who truly cares for your people."

"They are not my people. They are England's."

"They would argue otherwise." A pause. " _We_ would argue otherwise."

"Well, you are of course free to argue whatever you like. I will never accept it. I am America, after all, and it is not what I want."

"What you want does not matter. You do not live as we do. You do not die as we do."

"And I do not love as you do," America says. "Or so I am told."

Hamilton exhales through his nose. "It is clear that you do not love _us_ ," he replies. He pushes the butt of the rifle against America's shoulder as he steps past. "Now get up."

America does not, barely blinking. He sits immovably in his spot, listening to the frigid squelch of Hamilton's boots, the earth threatening to bury him with every step. No such luck – people like Hamilton don't seem to die. The red is advancing, spilling like a bloom of poppies between the bodies – it's hard to tell the difference between the British and the bloodshed.

He doesn't hear Hamilton turn but moments later he is seized by the back of his collar.

"I said get _up_!" Hamilton bodily hauls on him, trying to pull him to his feet. "Can you not see their advance? Soon they will be upon us!"

America goes defiantly limp, Hamilton dragging him though the soup of mud like a cannon. It proves too much, too exhausting, and Hamilton lets him go after a few feet. Perhaps he is too heavy, too much of a burden.

"What will you do, Alexander?" he asks, lying perfectly still, filth sinking to the bone. "Go back to Washington without me? Whatever will he say to you coming back so empty-handed?"

"You punish us so," Hamilton says disgustedly, "when all we do is for you. I cannot fathom your cruelty."

"I am not a human. I am unfathomable. Your energy will be better spent elsewhere."

"You think too highly of yourself."

"Not as highly as you think of me. I do wish you wouldn't. What does it matter what colour coat I am wearing in the end?"

"I try to defend you against him, you know," Hamilton snaps. "Washington says that you are like this, a wild little beast with no heart, and I speak on your behalf–"

"How kind of you, Alexander, given that you are not even one of England's."

"Yes, I see that you give me no ammunition! How can I defend you?"

"Defend me? You wish to _die_ for me."

"I will not die for you here," Hamilton says savagely. "Not like this."

He is distracted. The advance is making him skittish, his boots pacing in the slush. "Get up," he orders again. He makes no move to seize him this time. "They will be upon us."

America does not move, looking up at the white sky. "Let them come."

"If they find you lying here, they will take you as a prisoner!"

"A fine prize to present before England I would make, I am sure." America tips his head right back, looking at Hamilton upside-down. "...Don't you agree?"

Hamilton freezes, genuinely alarmed. Then he goes for his pistol, whipping it from beneath his battered coat – but America is too quick, he really can move like lightning when he wants to, rolling to his feet and running. He hears Hamilton curse behind him, fumbling with his unprepared gun, and doesn't look back, sprinting down the hill with renewed vigour. The mud sprays beneath his soles, his coat sticks to his back, he doesn't know if they'll even be able to tell he's in blue.

The shot goes off and hits him in the middle of the back – Hamilton has good aim even at this distance – and he stumbles but doesn't go down, saving himself, straining to get away, get out of range. Hamilton won't be able to load again in time but he might use his rifle–

It doesn't matter. He closes in on the victors, plunges into the heart of their slow and careful advance. Dozens of men in red look up, startled by the violence of his arrival amidst them, burning a hole like a comet. A commander squints and sees a bit of blue, shouts an order, and suddenly he's surrounded, bayonets flashing silver. He puts up his hands. Now they will do the work for him.

As for Hamilton up on the hill, how on earth will he explain this to Washington? America doesn't look back to see if he's still there. Poor fools, all of them.

They should have known better.

* * *

They must know who he is – what he is – for they do not treat him too unkindly. They tie his hands but the rope isn't knotted too tightly and he is given some biscuits and water for the journey. Clearly they want him in the best of shape to present him as a prize. He is about the only prisoner uninjured, listening to the muffled groans of wounded men who call themselves Americans and Patriots as they trundle towards the British camp. He wonders if they know that he sits amongst them, delivered into the hands of king and country quite by choice – that they lay down their lives for him but he will not take up his gun for them. He wonders where France and Prussia are, what they will say when they hear. He wonders how Hamilton will word this. He wonders what Washington will do now.

The travelling takes them more than a day. He doesn't know where they are but he senses the camp must be close to Boston, recognising the scent over the burning of fires and gunshot. The commander who ordered his capture comes to collect him, separating him from the other prisoners. He's a captain – newly-promoted, young, probably in lieu of a sudden violent death above him – keen-eyed and stern-faced.

"I know who you are," he says in a low voice. "Which begs the question... why did you run amidst us unarmed? You must have known that you would be captured." His eyes narrow. "If your purpose is to spy on behalf of Washington then know that I will have you shot here and now, boy."

'Boy' almost makes him snort with laughter. It makes his head hurt to think how many times this young man's age he is already. This is the folly of them all: he has the face of a child and they treat him as one. Even Washington, who warns of his nature, doesn't take him with the caution that he should.

Still, he is no stranger to playing his young body to his advantage. "I was confused," he says, blinking stupidly. "I ran the wrong way."

"Indeed." The captain is unmoved, completely unconvinced. "That sort of idiocy is not a desirable trait in a soldier."

"I am not a soldier," America says, looking at the ground, "so you will excuse my foolishness."

The captain seizes his chin, forcing him to look up once more. "Not a soldier, perhaps," he growls. "I confess that I know not _what_ you are, exactly – but that you are of unspeakable value to both Washington and to the general. He has requested that you be taken alive and in good health. Strange, when you look to be little more than a drummer boy."

America pulls his head free. "Then will you please take me before him," he says placidly. This man raises no emotion in him and he will not cry or beg.

The captain takes back his discarded hand, fingers flexing. He seems on the edge of whipping it across America's face. He doesn't want to have to explain the bruise and the bleeding lip to England – that's the only thing stopping him. At length he presses his lips together and gives a terse nod.

"Very well." He beckons sharply, turning away. "Come – but do not expect to be treated gently. He has not been in the most amicable of moods lately."

America says nothing, following. He knows that England is worried and stressed and tired. He knows exactly why.

"Perhaps he will torture you," the captain goes on unkindly. "That is why he wanted you captured in the best possible condition."

"Perhaps," America echoes absently. He looks up at the sky as he follows the captain through the camp. The sky is a brutal grey, bruising towards dusk. It's going to snow again. It's certainly cold enough. He barely remembers what warmth feels like. Long winter nights spent before the fire in England's arms with a leather-bound book seem like a century ago. Those skeleton walls wouldn't keep the wind out now.

"But then," he goes on, barely addressing the captain, "what would he get from me that he does not have already...?"

Stopping abruptly before the tent, the captain gives him an ugly look. "I confess that I cannot fathom why you are so highly-prized," he says coldly. "You seem to be little more than a common whore to me."

He ducks within the tent, no doubt to inform England, to claim the glory of the capture for himself. He's the sort of man who would be desperate for England's approval – ignorant, perhaps willfully, that England was France's whore once (that both of them were Rome's).

The exchange is brief. The curtain is hurriedly wrenched back and England emerges, unkempt, half-dressed. His wild eyes fall on America, who stands impassively before him with his hands tied.

"...You were captured," he sighs. He sounds scared and relieved all at once. "I almost didn't believe it."

"That I would be this stupid?" America sees the captain emerge from the tent over England's shoulder. He doesn't look very pleased.

"Reckless, perhaps." England waves his hand dismissively at the captain. "Thank you for bringing him. You may go."

He is spared no further glance, England taking America's shoulders and steering him forcefully into the tent. It is an officer's quarters not unlike Washington's, with a desk and a large table for maps and battle plans taking centre stage. There is some limp form of bedding in the far corner, although he knows that England actually doesn't sleep all that much. True nations can go for weeks without food or rest, particularly when they are at war. That is when they drop the act. Washington knows this. So does Hamilton. That's why they watch him the way they do. They are waiting.

As soon as they are alone, England pulls him close and embraces him tightly, shuddering a sigh of relief against his shoulder. America nuzzles into his hold as much as he can. He wants to hug him back but cannot, his hands still lashed.

"It has been too long since I last assured myself that you were safe," England mutters, rubbing at his hair. "You did not receive my last letter?"

"Washington sent me away from the camp. He said he had need of me further north."

England exhales. "He is not a stupid man. We have, I fear, been much too careless."

America shrugs in his arms. "What is the point of being immortal and powerful if we must answer to humans? I care nothing for tea or for taxes–"

"We are not immortal." England tightens his hold on him. "Difficult to kill, yes, but not unkillable."

"I was shot in the head and yet here I stand."

"You will never die at the hands of a common soldier. We'd be no good for war if that was the case."

"Then–"

"Enough of this talk," England says briskly, releasing him. He examines him at arm's length. "Look at the state of you. We must get you cleaned up at once."

He has, of course, brought the battlefield in with him, crystallized with encrusted filth. He is almost used to it, the tight dry itchy feel of a second skin, but England unties his wrists and burdens him with undressing. The tent is freezing, barely a barrier against the frosted night beyond, and his frigid fingers fumble with buttons and cords. He desperately wants England to help him, to take up the bayonet shining on the desk and cut him out of bloodied blue – not sexual, just because he aches all over, he wants to sink, to sleep, to wake in his burned bed back in Boston–

But England is busy with his back to him, warming up water in his tin shaving dish. He has the cloth he uses to clean his gun in one hand, a gritty sliver of soap in the other. America struggles out of the last of his clothes and stands shivering, silent, his shed skin pooled at his feet. It has been a long time since England has bathed him, babied him so, even if it is kindness without substance. He thinks of how gentle France and Prussia are with each other, the tenderness of fingers through hair, and how cold are their words and their eyes. He has never thought of England being exactly like them.

England comes to him. He puts the bowl on the desk and scrunches the rag in it, beginning to scrub America down. The water is barely lukewarm and the grit in the soap is like sandpaper and England is rough, clinical, washing away the war.

"Ouch." America squirms away from him – in vain, seized immediately. "Must you be so zealous?"

"My apologies," England replies, not sounding very sorry at all, "but you are as filthy as if you had not bathed in weeks."

"I told you, I was shot in the head. I know not how long I lay there before reviving."

(Not to mention being hauled like a dead horse through the mud by Hamilton, though he omits this detail. It seems irrelevant now.)

England snorts. "Even so, would it kill Washington to keep you halfway presentable? These men insist on taking you from me, they will even engage in war, and yet cannot keep you in the manner to which you are accustomed."

"Who cares about that now?" America insists. "I am quite happily your prisoner-of-war. I am not going back to them."

"Indeed you are not – not while I live and breathe." England pauses, the damp cloth cool on America's belly. "...I confess," he says quietly, "I never thought the enemy that would try to take you from me would be my own."

"They call themselves mine."

"I know."

"I do not accept them as such. I refuse."

"I understand that – but you must remember that most of them were born on this soil. They are more powerful than you realise and must be taken seriously."

America almost laughs. "B-but they declared war against you," he says. " _You_ – Great Britain. You're a superpower, you're–"

"A fool," England interrupts. " _I_ did not take them seriously – at least not at first. That is why France and the others offered their support when they did."

"But what does that matter? Washington's forces are being pushed into continuous retreat, I have witnessed it myself–"

"At the cost of thousands of my men."

"And what of it? They are _all_ your men when it comes to it. Let them wipe each other out and leave us be!"

England looks up at him sharply. "Do you speak to Washington like this?"

America scowls. "P-perhaps not so boldly," he confesses, "but the sentiment is much the same. Our feelings for one another are known and mutual."

"I expressly told you to betray no emotion before him."

"Why not? Why should I do as he says with no argument? He thinks he knows what is best for me without my consent; he treats me as though I am a child!"

"You _are_ a child, America."

"Not to him!" America snaps. "How many years beyond the lifespan of _any_ man have I lived? Even Benjamin Franklin is but a babe-in-arms compared to me, despite the youth of my body! _They_ should be the ones who tip-toe around _us_ , England!"

"America, please–"

"They build churches in worship of their invented all-powerful gods – while we walk amongst them!"

"Yes, gods are a human invention," England agrees flatly, "and so, I'm afraid, are we."

America falters, frowns at him. "What?"

"Humans create culture, custom, language. Those are the bricks that build nations. What do you think we are, America? We do not fall from the sky or spring from the earth. We are their invention. That is why we are at their mercy."

America says nothing. He cannot speak. England rinses out the cloth and switches sides, sponging over his shoulder blades.

"I know it is not what you wanted to hear," he says, "but it is the truth."

"Then why can't they kill us?" America asks dully.

"An ordinary human cannot. What can one man do against a nation? But one who is powerful, who holds your fate – a monarch, a dictator, a military leader–"

"Washington."

England exhales. "Yes. That is why I told you not to show him any weakness."

"Washington would not kill me, no matter his hatred – not after all this."

"I think you underestimate how little they need you. You are of far more value to me."

"B-but... I'm _America_ , I–"

"You're a colony. They want a nation. If you will not accommodate them then you are worthless."

America shakes his head fiercely. "B-but I have been forthright with my feelings. They know I will not betray you. Washington, he... he knows about us, England. He as not said as much but I know he does. Why has he not killed me?"

"Perhaps he is banking on you changing your mind. As creatures we are, after all, opportunists."

"England, I will never betray you." He clenches his fists. "I will _never_ choose humans over you."

"I know," England sighs. He presses a kiss to his raw shoulder. "Besides, none of it matters now, as you say. You are with me where you belong."

America nods. He falls silent as England washes his back, the water almost cold now. The shivering, which hadn't ever really stopped, is becoming worse. He folds his arms tightly across his chest.

"Not long now," England soothes, "and then we'll get you some warm clothes and something to eat."

America nods again, his teeth gritted against the chill; then sucks in a sharp breath as England rubs the cloth over the small of his back.

"You are injured," England says, rinsing away the mud, gently dabbing at the wound.

"Mm." America grimaces. "I-I forgot about it."

"This is a bullet wound." A pause. "You said you were shot in the head."

"I was. That... that was later, when I was captured–"

"Nobody would shoot you in the back when you were being taken into custody."

"I was running _away_ , England. My side was retreating so I made the most of it."

He hears England breathe in – sharp, on-edge. "...Who did this to you?"

Nothing. England shakes him. "America, _tell_ me. This wasn't from an ordinary soldier."

"It was Alexander Hamilton."

"Hamilton?" England drops the cloth, comes around to face him. "That's... he's Washington's–"

"Chief staff aide." America shrugs. "So what?"

"So _what_?" England seizes his face. "Do you not understand the danger you're in?"

"He was trying to stop me getting away. He didn't succeed."

"That is irrelevant. It means that Washington _gave_ him an order to shoot you."

"You don't know that. Hamilton is reckless–"

"The wound would have healed if Hamilton had acted on his own. That order came from Washington. He'd rather see you _dead_ than my captive."

"I got away. It doesn't matter."

"Is Hamilton still alive?"

"I suppose so. They were retreating when I ran."

"Then it _does_ matter. He will tell Washington what you did. He will know it was deliberate."

America takes England's sleeve. "But I am with you now," he says. "You will protect me."

England's grasp on his face loosens, becomes gentler. He rubs his thumb over his cheek, clean and pink from the cold.

"I confess I do not know how much longer I can keep you safe," he says quietly. "This... changes everything. If even Alexander Hamilton can inflict damage on you, then Washington's power over you is..."

"I don't understand." America looks searchingly at him but England won't meet his gaze. "England...?"

"Well, it should be obvious," England says, not unkindly. His eyes are on the maps, the campaigns, the victories and losses and dead men. "I am losing the war."


	3. III

...It's four. It's four parts. I'm so sorry. T.T

Thank you to all my reviewers! I'm glad to see so many of you are fellow _Hamilton_ trash.

(And to all those asking about _The Waning_ – I am working on it. It _is_ nearing Halloween, after all!)

How Lucky We Are

III

Tonight memory does not touch him. He brushes off blue, washes out Washington, sloughs off the circle of stars. This is the freedom that he wants. He is unburdened.

England isn't interested in his body, his energy expended elsewhere. He is distant, fretting, fetching America fresh clothes and some supper.

"Not tonight," he says, gentle with his rejection, unwinding America's fingers from buttonholes. "You are injured."

"I hardly have to be on my back–"

"Besides," England goes on, "the truth is that I... am really not hungry for that sort of thing at the moment. You _understand_ , don't you?"

America lets his hands drop. He doesn't feel particularly offended or unwanted – of course he _understands_ – but...

"I suppose I have never seen you like this," he says. "So..."

England gives a wan smile. "So desperate?" He leans in, kissing him on the cheek. "Go to sleep, love. You must be exhausted."

America is, admittedly, and he settles down without much protest, snuggling into coarse woollen blankets. He can tell they haven't been slept in.

"What about you?" he mumbles. England is still at the desk, bent over his maps with a glass of watered-down rum. "England...?"

"I'll come along in a bit," England says absently. "I just have a little bit more work to do before I turn in."

This is a lie. America knows he won't come to bed – he's as good as admitted that he's been upright for at least three weeks straight – and there doesn't seem to be much point in staying awake for him. He rolls over, burying his face in the blankets as he settles, suddenly shattered. This is the first time in years that he's been able to snuggle down in England's bed and sleep without worrying, without having to pry himself away and dress and sneakily step over France and Prussia–

But England is absent, the sheets cool and unused and without his scent. He sits up, turning to look at England over his shoulder. He is staring unblinkingly at the map, glass against his bottom lip, barely moving.

"England," he says softly, "please come to bed. We do not have to... well, all I want is for us to sleep like we used to." Silence. " _Please_."

"If I lose the war, Washington will take you back," England says flatly, not looking up. "He will kill you."

America exhales. The bullet wound aches when he breathes. "It might please him to do so," he says, "but I do not think it will bring him much benefit. You fixate on Washington, England. You forget that there are others. Franklin, Jefferson, Adams... He would have to answer to them."

England finally looks up at him. He seems a little surprised.

"Your words, I confess, are mature," he says. "Your ideas, however, are still naive. You have much to learn about the hungriness of men."

"Maybe – but your hunger is one I know well, even if you insist that you have no appetite." America pulls back the covers. "I know you have become accustomed to wakefulness but... please lie beside me. That's all I want. It's been so long."

England says nothing. He watches him a while longer, swilling his rum about the glass, and then abruptly drops his gaze again. He goes back to his work without another word.

Hurt, America waits a moment before sliding back to the straw mattress. His eyes burn as he settles them on the waltzing flecks of shadow from the burnt-down candles on the canvas wall. England – and the distance between what he means and what he does. Being in his arms wouldn't make much difference; his mind would still be on maps, his brain still on the battlefield.

"My apologies," America mumbles, drawing the covers close to his chin. "I was not aware that I should not show weakness before _you_ , either."

He goes quite still, closing his eyes. He doesn't expect that England even heard him; and certainly he gets no response, verbal or otherwise, for quite some time. He's almost asleep when at last he hears the glass clink to the tabletop, the crisp whisper of the map, England coming to him quietly. He shifts sleepily, beginning to make room–

England simply sinks to his knees and lies across him. He can feel his heart against the bullet wound in his back, the weight of him welcome, worrisome. He is an anchor and a shield. America doesn't make a sound, lying still, inviting nothing. He wonders if England will sleep like this – a wall between he and Washington.

He wonders how long they have left.

* * *

England awakens him early, making him dress in three layers of borrowed clothing, dirty white and edgeless grey, and they set out from the camp while it's still dark, crunching over the snow and into the woods. England has his pack and his rifle slung over one shoulder.

America goes with him obediently but cannot hold his curiosity. "Where are we going?"

"I cannot keep you with me, it is much too obvious. These men will be desperate to get you back now that you've revealed yourself to be a traitor to their cause. I need to hide you until I can make arrangements for you to be taken somewhere safe."

"O-oh." This hasn't occurred to America before now – he had assumed that he just stay at England's side for the rest of the war. "...Well, Boston, then?"

"It's not safe. Washington has spies everywhere."

"New York?"

"Even worse."

"But you hold them both–"

"I do not know for how much longer." England sighs, not looking at him. "...As I said last night, it is becoming clearer by the day that I am not winning."

America frowns. "B-but... you're Great Britain, you're an _empire_ , how could–"

"That is the problem. I did not take it seriously enough. I admit it – I was arrogant and foolish. I thought it was nothing more than a contentious little uprising, which is nothing new. Humans always think they are being treated unfairly. Never... did I think that it would turn into this. I never believed for a moment that there was a real threat of you being taken from me."

America looks down at his feet as he walks by his side – at the alien boots too big for him sliding in the snow. They are from a corpse. So is the waistcoat, the breeches, the coat. Waste not, want not. It all seems very clear now.

"Neither did I," he mumbles.

He feels for England's hand, catching it up, winding together their frozen fingers. England doesn't react for a moment – as though he needs time to process, to catch up, to remind himself what he should do – but then he squeezes America's smaller hand in his. He is very cold to the touch, like iron, like stone.

"I was weak, you see," England says; and his voice is soft but still it echoes off the silent naked trees all around them. "I was behaving like a human – making friends with them, throwing parties, treating you as first my child and then my lover... It is no wonder that they chose their moment. Washington is not a stupid man. Their true grievance might well be with my government, indeed, with my king, but I was their obstacle and I all but let them in the front door."

America's grasp on his palm tightens. "Then I... am the cause of your downfall."

"I am not blaming you."

"But it is the truth."

"Even if it is the truth, my only regret is that it may result in my losing you." This sounds a little bit flat, rather rehearsed; and England obviously realises this. "Forgive me," he amends, "I know that my voice, my actions... nothing I do matches my words. Please understand that I am currently quite the opposite of that jovial party host. I don't suppose you've ever truly seen me at war but the truth is that I haven't much capacity for anything except killing."

America nods, not looking at him. He realises how gentle he was last night when he washed him, all things considered. (Perhaps it is not that he carries no carnal urge but instead has too much and too little restraint, with nothing to stop him eating America afterwards.)

"But," England says, "it does not change anything. I love you more than anything in this world, America. I cannot allow myself to rest while your wellbeing is conspired against."

America nods again. There really isn't much he can say. England's appetite is too huge, too open, to be placated – though he sees, also, that he cannot, will not, surrender. In every sense, he has far too much to lose.

There doesn't seem to be much point in asking what will happen if Washington actually wins. The sun has almost risen when they come to the ruins of the house, spilling like split salmon over the snow, innards gleaming. America has been back so many times before to tend to the grave, though never in sunlight – but England is acting as though he has unearthed it.

"I am sorry to bring you back here," he says as they stand before it. "I know it is painful to look at."

America is silent for a moment, looking up at the sagging skeleton of his home, at the blackened wood and the charred brickwork and the cracked tiles. The shape is still there but the heart has been hollowed out.

"I am surprised they did not burn you in your bed as you slept," England goes on.

"I suppose they thought that I might be sympathetic. The night... was the first time that I met Washington. Properly, I mean."

England exhales, not looking at him. His eyes are on the house. America follows his gaze and nuzzles in close, squeezing his hand.

"England, it isn't your fault."

"I could have done more to prevent it." A pause. "...All of it."

"How? Killing Washington?"

"Killing them all – every last man who dared to put his name to that declaration. It's not the way things are done, typically. I did not have to be so civil."

America bites at his bottom lip. He knows England could have done it, too – single-handedly, weaponless, had he only been in the room where it happened.

"Still, it is done now," England says suddenly, briskly. "At least you are restored to me." He begins to walk again, tugging America after him, leading him into the ruin. "Nobody will think to look for you here. You will be safe until I can make other arrangements."

America gives a silent nod. He doesn't want to be left here all by himself but he understands the necessity.

They make their way through the remains of the house, winding through the labyrinth of half-walls and burned-away doors. It is dark, what's left of the upper floors sagging downwards, and smells of smoke even now. Underfoot comes the crack and crush of glass and porcelain and ceramic. He was the only thing they took from the house that night; everything else, from the curtains to the cups, went up in flames.

"You should be safe here," England says when they reach the centre of the house. It was once the ballroom, playing host to the many parties and gatherings of those who would wound and fester. "Stay in the middle of the house so you won't be seen."

America nods once more, his lips tight, as England drops the pack and opens it up. Within are the regulation supplies of the British Army: soap, candle, matches, blanket, mess tin. He drops his rifle and powder next to it, unsheathes his bayonet and presses it into America's palm.

"It will be a few days at most," he says. "I will come back for you as soon as I can. In the meantime, you must do what it takes to survive."

"I understand–"

"No." England takes his face, his fingers hard and sharp under his jaw. His green eyes are piercing, desperate. "Listen to me, America. If they come here, if they find you, you have to kill them, _all_ of them. Washington has you marked for death. He is done playing nicely with us – as are we with him. You _must_ stay alive, whatever it takes."

America tightens his hand around the bayonet. He knows this is England's way of saying that he should have killed Hamilton.

"I will."

"Good boy." England kisses him on the forehead. "I will return for you as soon as I can."

America takes hold of his lapel, clinging to him; his sudden proximity, his scent, his mouth on his skin, he wants, he _wants_ what has been denied him since the last letter, the last locked door. He pushes upwards, frozen feet arching in too-big boots, kissing him hard. England allows him, a little resigned as though he was expecting it, tilting his jaw, opening his mouth. America winds his arms about his neck, pressing close against him, and he can feel the heat and the pulse and the thrum on a cold still morning like this. He wishes it was outside, behind glass where it belongs, and that they were between bedsheets, cosy and cuddled and half-conscious. The world before Washington. How he mourns.

England breaks the kiss, gently unwinds him. "Enough," he says softly. "I'll be back, I promise, and in the greatest of haste."

"I know," America says. He tries once more – something short and shallow for farewell – but England is too wise, ducking away.

"Well then," he says. He nods once, his eyes dropping to the bayonet between America's white fingers. Then he turns away. "Be safe."

He doesn't say goodbye. He never does.

* * *

 _The night they dragged him before Washington burns as brightly as the beams of the house. They broke in downstairs and were upon him before he could gather himself, pulling him from the bed he shared with England and tying his hands behind his back. He was still in his nightgown, barefoot, as he was forcibly ushered down the stairs and out into the bitter night. There were soldiers in the driveway, arrayed in their crisp new blue, and at the centre, on horseback, was George Washington. America was brought before him, forced to his knees when he began to struggle. He looked at the ground, shivering, not lifting his eyes when Washington dismounted and his boots gleamed before him._

 _"I thought you would come to us the moment the Declaration was announced," Washington said. "I know the news reached you, even if it was by way of England's foul mouth."_

 _"I want nothing to do with it," America growled. "Nor do I want anything to do with you."_

 _"I have done nothing to offend you."_

 _"You rally against England! I will not forgive you for that – nor for doing it in my name!"_

 _"You may be satisfied beneath his boot but your people are not," Washington snapped. "I will not prize your cosy little life over our freedom."_

 _"You are not my people. You are England's. You speak of freedom in the same breath that you shackle me."_

 _"Because you will take no responsibility."_

 _"Why should I be responsible for anything that you do?" America finally looked up at him; Washington was taller than average, towering far above him. "Your grievances about taxes... what does that matter to me? I do not pay them."_

 _"No, I suppose you pay him in other ways, don't you."_

 _America said nothing, dropping his gaze once more. It was too dangerous to say anything else. It had not struck him that Washington... knew._

 _"Well, it does not matter now," Washington went on. "You are coming with me. You will wear our colours. You will carry our flag. You will become our nation, America."_

 _"I won't," America said defiantly. "I would rather die than sell my soul to you."_

 _"I cannot kill you," Washington said. "We both know that. It is unfair of you to gamble with a loaded deck. I can, however, burn your world up from beneath you." He snapped his fingers. "Then you will have no choice but to be born anew."_

 _Silence: and then the crack of wood beginning to burn, the sudden acrid stench of smoke. America turned as best he could, still on his knees, hands tied, and watched the flames rise up through the house, swallowing his salvation._

 _"Now you can no more shut out the war on your doorstep," Washington said behind him. "Worry not about clothing and the like – you will find yourself provided for."_

 _He bent down and hooked something cool beneath the rope at America's wrists; and with a tug he was freed, his arms falling limply to his sides. All his strength had left him, watching the funeral pyre of his former life. Washington, however, allowed him no time to grieve, taking him by his upper arm and hauling him to his feet. He hung like a rag doll, defiantly limp, and Washington shook him._

 _"There is no going back now," the general said. "I have given you no choice but revolution, just as England and his king gave us. Your men bleed on this land for your sake. It is time that you did the same."_

 _These statements seemed so disjointed – strung-together nonsense posing as grandeur, as wisdom, as reason. America's blue eyes slid towards Washington, settling at his throat. "Wait until England sees what you've done," he said dully._

 _"Such idle threats. We are at war. England is our enemy."_

 _"He is not mine."_

 _"You flatter yourself. He is the type to be easily persuaded." Washington's eyes were just as cold, even in the blazing night. "Besides, I am sure he has long been wondering when you would choose your moment to betray him."_

 _America sighed. "And how could you know something like that?"_

 _Washington smiled icily at him. "Because I am yours."_

* * *

Eagles are not born of ashes. Washington knows men and and mud but he does not know mythology; he does not know phoenixes, he does not know creatures made of mud that look like men. He does not know what they will do.

America lays out all the possessions he has in the world in a neat line on the blackened tile. All he has is what England left him with, gifts of survival, a dead man's clothes. He remembers the beautiful things he had before – the embroidered coats, the leather-bound first editions, the toy soldiers with their shining scarlet paint, all swallowed up in the book burning. He has kicked around in the ash many times before, hunting for remnants, but there is nothing but broken pottery left. He desperately wants to find a soldier, a scrap of silk, something, _anything_ , to prove that he hadn't imagined it, that he once lived a life that wasn't _wholly_ mud and men and muskets.

He goes to get the coat, unearthing it from its hiding place near what was once the front door. He stands, letting it unfurl like a flag, scarlet and sooty. This, too, England gave him, draping it about his shoulders to ward off harm. There is still dried-in blood from the soldier who died in it.

 _(because I am yours)_

He carries the coat back through the house – with tender touch like it's a lover, a prisoner, his borrowed boots echoing throughout the ruined walls, capering around corners no longer there. This was the grand entrance hall with its sweeping staircase; this was England's office with its mahogany desk and leather armchair; this was the library with its magnificent windows–

All gone back to mud and bone and ashes and dust – that's what they say after every battle, tending their wounded, counting their dead. He stops before his line of things, laid out like corpses, his inventory of mourning. He puts down the coat, arranging it as though it is filled with flesh and a spine, the arms askance.

That night was not the first time he met Washington. He first met him here, in this very room – at one of England's parties, set aglow with splendour, invited into their midst.

Washington was wearing red then, too.


	4. IV

Managed to get this finished just in the nick of time before October begins! o.O It's only taken... oh, three months, right? Hahaha... T.T

Like _Nighthawks_ , this has a fairly abrupt ending and no endnotes/ANs – please do not think that it was cut off when I uploaded it.

...That's it, I suppose. My apologies for how long this has taken! (Still nothing compared to 2014's _Align_ , though, jfc)

How Lucky We Are

IV

Washington is winning the war. America knows this not because of anything England says but because all his needs are seeping out of him. It is no longer adrenaline that keeps him awake, no longer nervousness that stays his hunger. He lays out the blanket and makes a small fire and debates. It's winter so there aren't many animals about but he could catch something, he's sure, or else dig up some roots; and there's snow enough for boiling into water for drinking or for broth. He doesn't feel the need for any of these things, however. He doesn't want to sleep. He doesn't even feel cold anymore. Instead he sits and stares at the fire, watching it dance. He really should put it out if he doesn't need it, the smoke might attract attention, but something stops his hand. It feels like a doorway home.

He doesn't know how long England has been gone. He is used to him being absent so even though he loves him, he doesn't really know how to miss him. He wonders where he's gone, how long he will be, if he'll come back. These are the things he used to think years ago when England went away, watching at the window, waiting for news that a storm had swallowed up his ship. This was common, of course, and a worry of his: because what would happen to him then? Perhaps he would inherit England's nationhood; or perhaps he would cease to be anything at all, go back to dust, to mud, the fields where England found him first.

He takes up the bayonet and then the red coat. He will have to take matters into his own hands – perhaps it is time, he is big, old and ugly enough and this war is wrapped around him. And England, well, he is by turns kind-hearted and ruthless, perfect, America wouldn't have him any other way, but he is fair-fucking-weather.

He's never there when you need him.

* * *

 _A winter's ball: The house is thick with the warm heady glow of a thousand candles, the linger of leather and lavender, the sweet stink of splashed spirits. The chandeliers twinkle and so do the ladies, their necks and their ears; and some of their fingers, although many are empty, watching, waiting. There are soldiers here, high-ranked ones from good families, and budding professionals, doctors and lawyers and businessmen. England always chooses these sorts as his company – young, educated, ruthless – because it's easy for him to blend in amongst the braincells and the bad breeding. They have a high turnover so they won't notice that he doesn't age._

 _George Washington is different. He knows outright: he's been in the army too long, he's seen England die and then get back up again. Most don't live long enough for this to be of much consequence but Washington is lucky in one way or another. He always stays alive._

 _He is skinned in his scarlet: England likes his soldiers upfront, proud of their poppy bloom, wearing their willingness to die, so he is in good company. They are clustered in their crimson around the bottom of the grand staircase, waiting. England has already greeted him, making his way through the ballroom like a moth between flames, but has since spirited away. He always makes a show of bringing the boy downstairs._

 _The boy, of course, is anything but. Another of England's kind, whatever they call a youngling, with the body of a teenager. It is hard to know precisely how many summers he's seen, with a face no older than fifteen, but he must be well over a century. England's other guests have no idea – they think he's a ward, a nephew, something that oughtn't be commented on – but Washington knows what he is. Who'd have thought that these beasts are born of colonial earth?_

 _England at last reappears, making known his entrance. He is in green silk with brocade and taffeta, shimmering in the candlelight, dreamlike, totally inhuman. On his arm is America, finely arrayed in black velvet, his coat and breeches embroidered with gold. There is a lull as they descend, all eyes upon them: these people don't know but they know, all the same. They give a wide berth as they would a falling star, molten and otherworldly. There is something about America, after all. He doesn't have the eyes of a child._

 _Hours later the circuits have been made, drunk and dizzy, laughing too loudly. America has kept close to England all night, hanging on his elbow, a thing of beauty. He doesn't speak much except to England, disguising his silence as shyness; Washington may have had a few drinks but he knows disinterest when he sees it. They are introduced, England proud of both of them, eager to display his fine soldier and finer colony to one another; and America bobs his head obediently, thanking him for his service, but he's not really looking at him. When eyes are turned away, he steps back, tugs at England's arm, trying to entice him back upstairs where there are doors with locks. Quite a stubborn pearl indeed._

 _He gets his way in the end, or so it seems. They vanish and Washington thinks nothing of it. He is used to England's flightiness – on the battlefield he seems to be everywhere at once. Instead he moves through the house with natural ebb and flow of the party, the numbers dwindling. It is almost over but there will be one next week, too, and the week after and the week after that. It is an act as controlling as it is generous; Boston's gossip begins and ends in this house. These are the rooms where it happens – and this is something to be aware of, to take caution in. Sometimes you see things you don't want to see–_

 _Like Washington, who, on this night, turns a corner and passes a door; a door which, being slightly ajar, offers a glimpse into the room beyond. The corridor is empty and from the chamber spills light and noise. He cannot help what he sees, cannot unlearn what he knows. It is not even really a surprise. In a world in which nations are men, what else are colonies for?_

 _If only, if only, America looked as disinterested now, if only he seemed indifferent, like he doesn't really want it, then maybe it wouldn't matter. But it does matter and he does want it; England has him up against the wall, holding him under his thighs, his patent buckled shoes gleaming in mid-air. America's arms are wrapped tightly around England's neck, his head tipped back against the wallpaper, exposing his throat for it to be devoured. He is making quite a bit of noise; England, on the other hand, is silent but for his panting breath, holding himself together. They have a rhythm, they are fast and practiced, they've done this a thousand times before._

 _America doesn't have the eyes of a child: he pushes England's mouth from his neck, smiles at him, tilts his head, kisses him deeply. He is completely in love with him._

 _And what of Washington – British subject, England's soldier, born on America's soil? If he looks away now or stands watching them all night, it will make no difference._

 _He has seen that these creatures have hearts._

* * *

What stories do soldiers tell around campfires? The best ones have blood and sex and death; murder, revenge, wholesale slaughter. Mortality is the key here – they want stories they can relate to, the more morbid the better, because tomorrow they might be dead. Mincemeat for monsters, those are the best stories of all, the creatures that come in the middle of the night, tireless and hungry, like red stains between the trees. Oh, and the worst part (this in a whisper)! _They look like humans. You can't even tell._

He has the bayonet in one hand and a lantern from the pack in the other. He left the rifle behind – too much to carry, too slow and inaccurate at close range – and he doesn't have a pistol. He is wearing the red coat. Perhaps if he's lucky, like before, he'll be captured and they'll do the work for him. He doesn't think that Hamilton would be that stupid, perhaps, but somebody is. Alas, he is not spotted, or at least not stopped, and time and space blurs into one long trek through snow and wet black trees until at last there is dawn and the smell of smoke and meat. He blows out the lantern and tosses it aside. It is still dark enough – the troops won't have stirred quite yet – but his eyes are accustomed already. He needs no light to find his way to his purpose.

 _(sleep no more, macbeth does murder sleep–)_

He puts the knife in the back of his belt as he crosses the camp. There is little sign of life yet, though a few horses stir at his stride. Animals have better foresight than men. He is almost to Washington's tent when he is seized suddenly by the back of the collar, a hand slamming over his mouth to stop him from crying out.

"You have some fucking nerve," Prussia hisses in his ear. "What in hell do you think you are doing?"

America squirms, manages to get his mouth free. "I was captured by England's forces," he growls. "Now I have returned. Unhand me."

"I do not believe that for a moment. Why are you arrayed in his colour?"

"I came through British territory to get here. I believed it was safer."

"I see. And you escaped?" Prussia tosses him to the ground. "Or did he let you go?" His boot comes down on America's skull, grinding his cheek into the dirt. "What are you up to, you little snake?"

"I am... not _up_ to anything!" America tries to pull his head free but can't, Prussia's heel squarely on the bone. "Is this not a war... for _my_ independence?!"

"That is what I had heard, ja." Prussia abruptly steps off him, crouching down to his level. He takes him roughly by the hair. "But it would seem that the one who has the least interest in such a thing is _you_. You will make fools of France and I no longer!"

"I need to see General Washington."

"Oh?" Prussia grins, sudden and white. "I am sure that will interest him greatly. He is not very happy with you. He heard from Hamilton that you ran away during the last retreat."

"I was disorientated," America says defensively. "I got shot in the head."

"Ja? Well, I'm going to shove my bayonet up your asshole, you little–"

"Prussia." A lyrical drawl. France appears behind him, placing a hand to his shoulder. "Enough. Let him up."

Prussia snorts, grudgingly letting go of America's hair. He takes a few gold strands with him. He stands, exhaling deeply, and France takes his hand. It is not affection, it is to stay him.

"I suggest that you do not tarry here," France says benignly. "You have made your bed. It is unfortunate that you share it with Angleterre."

"I came to see Washington." America gets to his knees, then his feet. This is unfortunate, a waste of his time. He should have been in and out by now.

"To spin him your lies about being captured by the British forces?" France examines his nails. "Why not spare us all the humiliation? Go back to Angleterre, stay with him until he loses and we take you from him properly. That is what is going to happen so you might as well."

"He needs to be properly destroyed so that there is nothing for you to go crawling back to," Prussia says.

"...Destroyed?" America clenches his fists.

"Well, he is such a thorn in my side," France says lazily. "Spain's, too. This is the perfect opportunity to be rid of him. We do not have to kill him, as such, but crushing the will out of him and taking everything he has is good enough." He looks at America, his blue eyes bright. "Starting, naturally, with you – the most precious treasure he has."

"B-but... but I didn't..."

"Want this? We know." France shrugs. "But that is the interesting thing, non? You are precious to him, Amerique, but to everyone else you are worth nothing."

America's fists unfurl. He knew this already, really, but it is still a miserable shock to hear it spoken aloud. Nobody does anything for anyone out of kindness, especially not nations. Even England has ulterior motives, he's sure, even if it's only pride (or greed or lust or some other Sin). Still, would France say that to Canada...?

"That is not entirely true." A voice from the tent – Washington. "America, you are not worthless to me."

France tilts his head. America turns, finding Washington standing at the open mouth of the tent. He is fully-dressed, a little grey-faced, his eyes hard. He hasn't slept. He nods once to France and Prussia.

"I will handle this." Then, to America: "You had better come inside."

America slinks in past him without a word, the bayonet cool and solid against his spine. France and Prussia are left outside hand-in-hand; too bad for them, they'll have to find some other carcass to caw over. They'll be back, perhaps, when Washington has a knife in his throat and America is long gone.

"Why are you saying kind things to me now?" he growls as Washington joins him, closing the tent. He feels rather cornered, all the same, with nowhere to run if he fucks up (or, indeed, if Washington goes for him first – there is a pistol on the desk, a ceremonial sword on the chair, a rifle propped in the corner).

"I am not being kind," Washington replies. "Far from it. I am stating a fact. To anyone born on this soil, you are not worthless. You _are_ America, after all."

"And yet you treat me with contempt."

"I rather think the feeling is mutual." Washington eyes his scarlet coat with disgust. "I heard from Alexander what you did."

America scowls. "I was shot in the head," he says again. "I was confused, I–"

"No, you ran deliberately. Alexander is very thorough in his correspondence."

The man writes like a demon, it is true, and has an extraordinary memory for the smallest detail. He should have killed him.

"Whatever would the men say," Washington adds coldly, "if they were to see you in that colour?"

America raises his chin. "You wore this colour once. I saw you myself."

"I am amazed you remember anything of that night. Of me, at least. Your attention was certainly... elsewhere."

"So what if it was?" America snaps. "Who the hell are you to dictate to me what I can and cannot do?! I have been with England for almost two hundred years – I will not be parted from him by a few measly humans who refuse to pay their taxes! I will outlive you all and then what will it matter? I _love_ him – you cannot burn it out of me!"

"You are selfish and spoiled," Washington says calmly. "You know nothing of sacrifice or of duty."

"And _you_ know nothing of loyalty!" America wrenches the bayonet from the back of his belt, flinging himself at Washington. "After all he has done for you – for us both!"

Washington ducks aside, the bayonet missing by a mile; and America stumbles against the canvas, righting himself, his fingers sweaty on the grip.

"You are a fool," Washington says, backing towards the desk. "His grasp about your throat is so strong that it strangles all sense from you."

"And what will _you_ do with me?" America hisses. "Kill me – or do you need Hamilton to do it for you?"

Washington says nothing, eyeing him coldly, and America feels his temper spike again at his silence, his snub, swinging forwards once more with the blade. Washington takes it on the arm, knocking him away, and there is no blood but the wool tears at the elbow. Washington moves back, snatching up the sword from the chair, brandishing it before him. America exhales heavily, observing. He can't get near him now.

"That isn't fair," he says.

"This is not a game."

"You are the one who uses me as a pawn!"

"You think that you have been treated badly?" Washington snorts. "You, who have lived in comfort as England's pet, willingly turning your back on the struggles of your people–"

"They are _not my people_!" America shouts, his voice strangled. "You may call yourselves 'Americans' all you want, you can wrap yourselves in this wretched flag, you can throw yourselves at my feet in worship – but I will never accept you, _never_!" His grip tightens on the bayonet, his eyes meeting Washington's. His voice is hoarse. "I reject you with all of my heart!"

This hits Washington right where it hurts; for the first time, he seems shocked, hurt. He blinks at America. He doesn't know what to say. The sword lowers, just a fraction, just a moment of disquiet–

America sees it and lunges, throwing all his weight behind the blade. He's clumsy, too eager to kill, to be done with it, and Washington is off-guard, perhaps, but he's stayed alive this long because he isn't stupid. He steps back, throwing out the sword – and perhaps it's only a warning but he's too precise, too clean, and it plunges into America's shoulder, scraping over the bone.

He's never felt anything like it – a sudden unfurling of fire, scorching down his arm, through his chest. He coughs on it, gasping, breathless, and buckles, hanging like a picture on a crooked nail. Washington is swift, planting his boot into his belly, kicking him clean off the blade. America crumples, going down with a bang, losing the bayonet. He lets out a shuddering breath, trying to gather himself, but his skull sings, his shoulder seethes, for a moment he barely knows where he is anymore, what he came here to do. Over the roar of the sea, he hears Washington approach him. He tries to push himself up, looks desperately for the knife, sees it glinting a few feet away; and he can't crawl so he flings himself forward and stretches and stretches–

Washington bends down and seizes him by the hair. His skull already smarts from Prussia doing the same, blonde bleeding at the roots, but he pulls back just enough to snatch up the bayonet before Washington bodily drags him to his knees. He still has the sword, shining scarlet – America sees it quivering in his hand and has no idea what he's going to do with it. He want to take no chances – none, he can't afford to – so he doesn't give Washington one, either. He brings back the bayonet and slams it into Washington's thigh.

The general gives a howl of agony, releasing his hair; and the sword goes clattering from his grasp as he stumbles back, the knife hilt-deep in his flesh. America drops, grits his teeth, forces himself to his feet. The sword, the pistol on the desk—no, no, too far, he hasn't the strength. He turns and runs, bursting out of the back of the tent, running as fast as his legs will carry him. If... if he can just get _away_ , find somewhere to hide so his shoulder can heal–

He knows it's serious. This isn't a bullet to the head from some nameless cavalryman. His entire arm is soaked already, the scarlet wool heavy with blood, and the pain is almost blinding. He presses his palm to it as he flees into the forest, trying to stem the wound, but it comes and comes. The trees are swaying. He has no where he's going. It all looks the same, white and bleak and barren–

He can hear voices behind him, a thousand footsteps, carrying through the trembling trees. How stupid of him, his courage unstuck, to not at least finish Washington off. Bayonet in the throat – then he would have been silent. But now they'll see his footprints, they'll smell the blood, they'll drag him back to his death–

He slips and falls, trying to save himself one-handed, landing awkwardly on his elbow instead. It isn't mud, it's snow, but it's gone hard and sharp overnight and it tastes of iron. He lies still for a moment, panting, gathering his strength, and out of the corner of his eye he can see the bloom of red on the crust and the bristle of blue between the trees. They haven't been long in catching him up. He's really in no condition to run.

"Take him alive!" one shouts. "General Washington's orders."

"Alive?" snorts another. "Looks like there's barely any life left in him..."

"Bringing back a body is better than nothing. Do not allow him to escape!"

They've closed him in. There's a full circle of them, bright blue like a bruise, and they advance on him slowly, cautiously, as though he's a wild animal. He starts to get up, it's more effort than he has to spare, and the back of his skull meets with the butt of a rifle.

"Stay down." Low, commanding – he knows that voice anywhere.

He catches his breath. "Eng–?"

The crack of the rifle goes off over his head, deafening, and the soldier before him convulses and crumples. There is a moment of stunned silence – America lifts his head just enough to see that the others are badly wrong-footed, staring at their fallen comrade in disbelief – but England gives them no time to mourn. He has a rifle with a bayonet attached, another knife in his belt and a sword and he is quick and ruthless. There are fifteen soldiers and he kills them all: it's a blur, he rips open throats and smashes in skulls, guts one open like a fish. No motion is wasted, he can hear them behind him, every breath they take. They don't stand a chance.

When the last one falls, he turns to look at America. He's covered in blood but he isn't wearing red. He's in blue. America thinks he's hallucinating. It can't be—it _can't_ be England, not now, not so miraculous, not wearing Washington's colour–

"It's me," England says, shushing his babbling. "I was infiltrating Washington's camp."

"Wh-why?"

"To kill him." England frowns. "But then you had to go and be stupid about it."

"Y-you... you are not angry?"

"I am furious," England says, quickly pulling off his cravat, wrapping it tightly about America's shoulder. "But there is time enough for that. Right now you are in danger, you idiot boy."

"I... I'm sorry, England, I just... I-I thought if I got rid of Washington–"

"I know. That was my logic, too – but you ought to have left it to me." England looks at him with concern. "You are badly injured. You need to rest."

America clutches at him. He feels so weak all of a sudden, terrified and bleeding. "England, am I... dying?"

"It is serious," England says, "because Washington gave it to you – but you will recover. Humans survive worse." He kisses America's forehead. "Now come on – we haven't much time. The bastard will be after us himself."

He rises, taking America's elbows, pulling him up; and then he begins briskly away, taking up the nearest abandoned rifle. America stumbles after him, struggling to keep pace. His legs are trembling – shock, fear, pain, relief – and they're going uphill, the snow turned to slush with half-frozen blood. He takes his hand from his throbbing shoulder, trying to catch at England's – but he's too far ahead, distant in his dead man's blue, in another moment he'll be gone back between the trees and out of sight, overseas again, maybe. This is why one day America could no longer stand to sleep apart from him, needed his love to be physical, reciprocated, because otherwise England is like a mist and America cannot hold onto him. Even if England is rough, if it hurts, he can clutch at him, he doesn't have to let him go–

"America."

England has stopped, watching him worriedly. America looks up at him dazedly, his breath coming hard.

"You are weaving like a drunken sailor." England comes back to him, touching his face. "Losing too much blood, I'd wager."

America shakes his head free. "I-I am quite well, I assure you–"

"We need to move quickly. I shall carry you." At this, England hoists him onto his back without much ceremony, holding him under his knees. "Hold on around my neck."

America does so, though his arms are numb and he hasn't got much grip. England isn't a particularly big man, average height, rather slender, but he is strong, moving upwards through the snow with America's dead weight without effort. America rests his head against his shoulder blade. He can smell the familiar earthen burn from the blue wool. This is not England's scent. This is Washington's.

"...England?"

"Mm?"

He closes his eyes. "Do you love me?"

"Of course I do, America." England's voice is calm but weighted, wary. "What–?"

"Good." America sighs it against his shoulder. "I... I love you too, England, I really... I–"

"Pray do not talk like that," England says. "This blue coat is not your deathbed. You will be alright, I promise – and that besides, I will not leave you again." He tightens his grasp under America's thighs as he says it. There is no way that he can fall.

America says nothing more, drifting in and out of wakefulness as they make their way back through the forest. He doesn't recognise the scent – they are not near Boston and this isn't the way he came. England is hyper-aware of being followed, naturally, and must be taking an alternate route. It takes a long time but he is tireless; his footsteps do not falter even where the ground is at its iciest. This must be a true nation, America thinks (because he's half-delirious), a creature that neither man nor nature can get the better of. England is the one who belongs in whispered campfire weavings, between trees, tireless and hungry. He is the one who should be in red.

It is nearing sundown when they finally begin to approach the remains of the house, the telltale gravel of the old pathway glinting through the snow. England stops quite abruptly, jolting America awake.

"I can smell horses," he says in a low voice. "...Can you walk?"

America nods and he puts him down, taking a firm hold of his arm. With his free hand, he draws his sword. America is very still next to him, straining to hear, to smell, to see. He cannot deny the sudden terrifying feeling that they are not alone.

"I may have miscalculated," England hisses. "I had thought that circling the place and approaching from the rear might throw the bastards off..."

America clutches at his sleeve. "England... have we–?"

"Walked into a trap? I fear so."

"We should not have come back here." It seems so obvious now, in perfect hindsight, but England shakes his head.

"This is as good a hiding-place as any. I am on the backfoot." He exhales through his nose. "...I would tell you to run but they would catch you."

The reality of this dawns on America. He's never heard England talk like this; never heard him sound so... defeated–

"Then what are you going to do?" he asks. "Just... hand me over to Washington?!"

"Of course not," England snaps. "I will never surrender you to him as long as there is breath in my body."

"Then perhaps he will simply kill you."

"He cannot and he knows it. I, however, can kill him – and so can you." England starts to move again, pulling America along after him. "Now stay close. It is the only way I can protect you."

They move through the trees, the blackened skeleton of the house appearing suddenly through the evening's gathering mist. There is no sign of life but England is right – there is definitely the smell of horses and of gunpowder, too.

"Perhaps they have already passed through," America says, "finding it empty–"

"Washington wouldn't leave this place unguarded." England slings the rifle at him. "Load it and be ready."

America knows he isn't a very good shot but doesn't dare argue, his hands trembling as he works on it as quickly as he can, England standing before him like a shield. His shoulder screams, stiff and torn open, and once or twice his grip slips and he almost drops the gun in the snow–

A shot goes off suddenly, echoing like thunder between the trees, and the bullet hits England right in the neck with a spray of blood. He barely flinches, however, taking a step back with the impact, perhaps, but little more than a grunt of discomfort passes his lips. He tilts his head and wipes away the blood on his sleeve.

"Somebody is rather overexcited," he says coolly. He straightens again. "...Or was that a stray?"

A pause.

"He is correct." Washington emerges on horseback from between the trees, flanked by a few of his aides. Hamilton is not among them. "You need to fight up close."

England looks directly at him. "Is that an invitation, George?" He grins. "Or simply an admission that your men are poorly-trained?"

Washington says nothing, simply raises his hand; and from between the trees burst dozens more soldiers in blue. They have ditched their rifles – instead they have bayonets and swords, flashing like running water as they charge.

"Get inside the house," England hisses at America. "Try and get a clear shot at Washington. Go!"

America nods, scrambling away clutching the rifle. He hears Washington shout something after him but it drowns beneath the clanging of steel as the first of the soldiers come into contact with England. He closes his ears against the singing of blades on icy air, the thunk of bone, the screams of dying men. It isn't worth their while – surely England cannot be carved into pieces without the permission of his king.

The wooden staircases are burned away to nothing but the stone slabs of the back passageway used by servants is still intact. He hurries up it, the rifle over one shoulder, and kneels at the top of the decimated landing. There isn't much of the outer wall left intact, leaving him open, so he keeps as low as he can. He hasn't got a very clear line of view towards Washington and he knows he won't be able to hit him, not from here, not with his injury. But there is nowhere else to go, the floor burned away, gaping into the gutted ground floor. Instead he watches England, already surrounded by dead soldiers like a fairy ring. Washington would call them off if he had any sense, what a waste of men–

But he looks at Washington and sees no trace of emotion whatsoever on the general's face. He's seen too much of this, who lives, who dies. He knows precisely what it costs.

And then a soldier gets lucky. He gets his sword past England's and manages to plunge it right through him. England stumbles, shocked – and it won't kill him, of course, but it hurts and it's just enough to give the others a much-needed moment to gather themselves. In a split-second they have aligned themselves into syncronised slaughter, plunging their swords through him at all angles, through his ribs and his back and his chest and his belly, and they leave them there and step back and suddenly America realises that Washington must have briefed them. This was planned – because the only way to stop a monster like England from healing is to leave the weapon in his body.

Even with the weight of twenty swords, however, England does not go down. He stands buckled, still clutching his own blade, breathing heavily, bleeding and bleeding. His coat is turning violet. Nobody moves, nobody speaks, not even Washington. Probably they had not counted on him still being conscious, let alone standing, and now they don't know what he'll do if they go near him.

What he does, in fact, is look up at America. He cannot speak because he has a throatful of blood, already welling over his bottom lip. His eyes are the only green thing America can see in this place (the wallpaper used to be that colour, yes, and so were the trees and his clothes that night–). Everything else is white or blue or red.

 _Do what it takes–_

America raises the rifle and shoots him in the head. Even with his lousy aim, his shaking hands, it's a clean shot and England goes down like a ton of bricks on the swords. America doesn't even watch him fall, sprinting back down the stairs and out into the snow. England's assailants have fallen well back, unarmed, alarmed. America steps past them and throws the rifle aside, kneeling next to England's body. He's dead but America can see the shattered bone beginning to repair itself beneath his matted hair already. He begins to attend to the swords instead, pulling them from him one by one, sending them cartwheeling in crimson over the snow. Behind him, he hears Washington dismount at last; then the uneven footsteps as he limps towards him. The wound to his thigh must be bad.

"I have shot down your Icarus, general," he says. "Now you can capture him safely."

Washington crunches to a halt. "You mean to tell me... that this was your plan all along?"

"Of course. How else to lure him to you?" America pulls out the last of the swords and turns to Washington. "It is not my fault if you did not trust me. I _am_ America, after all. You should have known better."

Washington does not appear particularly moved. "It is true that I have long considered that you would one day betray him," he says coldly, "but I think you are an opportunist rather than a strategist."

America smiles. He looks at the tourniquet tied tightly about Washington's thigh. "With all due respect, so is your precious Alexander Hamilton," he says, "and so are you."

"You attempted to kill me."

"And you I." America stands up. "What does it matter now that you have England in your grasp? You can use him to bargain with the king."

Washington says nothing for a moment. Instead he nods for his men to hoist England to his feet, which they do, holding him under his arms. He revives at a truly terrifying rate, already regaining consciousness. He shakes his head, disorientated.

"You shot me in the skull, you little bastard," he growls. "Warn me next time..."

"Oh, England, _about_ that." America turns back to him, putting his arms around his neck. "I'm afraid there has been something of a change of plan."

"Has there indeed."

"Yes. You are going to be _our_ prisoner now." America looks him right in the eyes. "I really think that is the best way of settling this, don't you?"

England says nothing. America hangs on tighter to him, nuzzling into his damp coat.

"England," he says against his neck, "you _understand_ , don't you...?"

"Rest assured that _I_ understand perfectly," Washington says behind him; and suddenly one of the discarded swords comes through him from behind, pinning him to England's body.

America balks, his voice sticking in his throat, clutching at the back of England's coat. England seems like he can barely feel it, blinking once.

" _You_ are the Icarus," Washington says, pulling back the sword. He tosses it aside and seizes America by the back of his collar. "You think yourself above me, dressed in your sunfire scarlet. If this is the only way to protect our legacy then so be it."

He drags America off England, throwing him backwards. The teenager stumbles, clutching at his wounded middle, but like England he does not go down, his breath rasping as he fights to stay standing.

"But I have burned your wings off once," Washington says, moving between America and his wavering view of England (shell-shocked, still held upright by Washington's men). "Tell me, America... is this how you imagine death?"

He has a pistol. He has good aim and a steady hand and a clear shot. He does not hesitate.

(If it had been different, if he had ended up at England's mercy, somehow he knows that England would not do it–)

" _Wait_!"

England. Maybe. It doesn't matter. Washington sets him on fire and hours later he hits the snow, it seems. The sky is grey, almost night. He can't breathe.

Distant shouting. The sound of a body hitting the snow (dead or alive?), perhaps his own, an echo. Suddenly England is next to him, kneeling, cradling his head. Crying. He's never seen him cry before. He didn't think it was possible–

"England," he whispers, "I... I didn't..."

"Ssshh." England takes off his coat, already drenched, and presses it against him. "It's alright, I'm here–"

America reaches up towards his face. His hand is slick and scarlet.

"Oh," he says. "Oh–"

"It's just the coat," England says desperately. "It's the red coat – that's why it's red, so you cannot..."

He takes America's hand and presses it to his cheek. For the first time, America realises how much he's grown. England's hand barely covers his anymore. He laughs. It tastes like copper.

"What?" England smiles at him – tense, heartbroken. He knows.

"Me."

"You...?" Clench.

"I-I'm sorry I... I didn't–"

"No, no, you did nothing wrong." England pulls him up, cradling him close. "I am the one... who did not protect you–"

"B-but you... love me, England, d-don't you?"

"Of course I do." He holds him tighter. "...Isn't that enough?"

"Mm." America breathes out. "England, you... you used... to be so..."


End file.
